


Between

by thecarlysutra



Category: Top Gun (1986)
Genre: 1990s, Alternate Universe, Astral Projection, Character Turned Into a Ghost, Don't Ask Don't Tell, Established Relationship, Ghosts, Grief/Mourning, Gun Violence, Hospitals, Long-Term Relationship(s), M/M, Military Homophobia, Non-Graphic Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-09
Updated: 2020-04-02
Packaged: 2020-10-13 02:37:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20575064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thecarlysutra/pseuds/thecarlysutra
Summary: After a senseless act of violence, Iceman Kazansky is stuck between life and death ... and he has to figure out how to navigate this strange, liminal space to keep Maverick alive.Inspired by the movieGhost.





	1. Chapter 1

  
Iceman Kazansky and Maverick Mitchell met in the Navy, both fighter pilots. Ice had been transferred to Maverick’s boat, and Maverick had kind of hated him at first. He was fastidious, by the book, and ridiculously talented. Easy to hate. He was squadron leader within a few weeks, a post Maverick had held and lost three times. It was even worse to be under him, Maverick had thought at first, but then he stopped marinating in his resentment and took a minute to actually figure out what Ice was like. As a leader he was a shining example, and he ran a tight ship, but he worked harder than everyone without saying a word about it, and he’d do anything to help a member of his squadron with any problem they had. He was quiet, reserved, and that could read as cold, but beneath that he was genuinely kind with a big heart and a quick, dry wit. 

Maverick had fallen for him pretty quickly, and he’d found out not too long after that that Ice had fallen for him, too. 

Twelve years later, they were still in love, and Maverick was standing in his CO’s office being fired because of it.

There were a dozen large, glossy photographs of Maverick and Ice on a date downtown laid out on Captain Berg’s desk. The pictures were all fairly benign, except the last three, where they were kissing passionately on their way inside Maverick’s house.

“Commander Mitchell,” Berg said, “do you have anything to say about these pictures?”

Maverick looked at the wall. “I don’t know who the photographer is—” He had his suspicions, but it would be useless trying to prove anything. “—but I hope he’s not looking for gallery space. He got my bad side twelve times, and the composition is shit.”

Berg frowned. “Commander Mitchell, you must realize this falls under conduct unbecoming an officer of the United States Navy.”

“Is this the _don’t ask_ part, or the _don’t tell_ part?” Maverick asked.

Berg ignored him. “Commander Mitchell, you are hereby placed on administrative retention review, to begin at the conclusion of this meeting, during which your future in this service will be determined by a board of commissioned officers. Dismissed.”

Maverick managed not to slam the door on his way out. Ice was waiting on the other side of it, standing instead of taking one of the half dozen chairs, arms crossed over his chest. It hid some of the bars on his uniform, but not all of them.

“I’m fucked,” Maverick said. “I’ll see you at home.”

Ice reached out for him. “Mav, wait—”

Berg’s door cracked open. “Commander Kazansky.”

“Go,” Maverick said. “It’s okay. It’ll be okay, Ice. I’ll meet you at your place. Go on, before he adds insubordination.”

Ice’s brow pinched, and his mouth twisted, but after a beat he nodded, and he disappeared into Berg’s office. Maverick couldn’t just stand there with this much rage thrumming through his veins, and he couldn’t just stand there and wait to see Ice’s face when he found out he wasn’t going to be able to fly anymore. Maverick left the building, likely for the last time, and he zoomed through the winding streets on the back of his motorcycle, trying to get used to the idea of never going any faster than this for the rest of his life.

He drove to Ice’s place, which he realized was what home meant to him, because home was wherever Ice would be, and he got a beer out of the fridge, and he sat at the kitchen table with it, drinking and waiting for Ice to come home to him. After a while, he heard the front door open and then close softly, and Ice’s quiet footsteps behind him. He felt Ice crowd the back of his chair, one hand on his shoulder and the other running through his hair. He didn’t look up, but he did lean back, let Ice take some of his weight.

“Are you fucked?” Maverick asked.

“No,” Ice said, “and neither are you.”

Maverick jumped out of his seat and whipped around to look Ice in the face. “Bullshit. We’re out, Kazansky.” 

Ice shook his head. He looked drawn. “No. You’re on administrative review—”

“That’s brass speak for _you’re getting fired when we get around to the paperwork_, and you know it,” Maverick spat.

Ice continued like he hadn’t been interrupted. “—and I’m on a new DOD joint. They’ve bumped up my clearance, Mav, and Berg told me half a dozen times how important the success of this thing is. All I have to do is work this project, make it look nice when they send it up the chain, and they’ll keep me, Maverick—”

“You’re kidding yourself, Tom.”

“Listen, Mav. Listen to me. They’ll keep me, and they’ll keep you. I’ll make them. I do this, and I’ll have leverage, leverage for us both.” 

Maverick wanted to fight. He wanted to take Ice by the shoulders and shake him until he realized how screwed they were. But then he took a moment, and he looked at Ice’s face, at the desperate hope written across it. He took a deep breath, forced his blood down. He stepped forward, put his hands on Ice’s shoulders, but he didn’t shake him; he just held on.

“Okay, Ice,” he said. “I believe you.”

***

Five months later, they were in the kitchen of their new house, and Maverick was sitting at the same table from Ice’s old place scrutinizing paint chips, and Ice was looking for a pre-bedtime snack. Maverick was still on administrative review, but a lot had happened after that day in Berg’s office. They had had a commitment ceremony. It had been a quiet affair, just Ice’s sister and her family and some close friends, but it had been beautiful. And they’d both sold their places and moved into a new house, an aging Victorian that had probably been the prettiest house in the city, Ice said, a hundred years ago, and now was a constant project. But Maverick had time and energy, and he was doing all the work himself during the day while Ice was doing his top secret whatever for the Department of Defense. 

Maverick squinted at the paint chips. “Which do you like for the first floor bathroom: Turbid Sea or Petulant Periwinkle?” 

Ice took his head out of the fridge long enough to glance at Maverick’s paint chips. “Those are the same color.”

“No, there’s variations—”

“There aren’t.”

“Maybe you’re colorblind.”

“I’m a _pilot_,” Ice snapped. 

Maverick sighed. He pushed the paint chips aside. “How was work?”

Ice shrugged, pawing through the crisper. “Fine.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

Maverick frowned. “I don’t like this top secret assignment of yours.” 

Ice took a pint of Häagen-Dazs from the freezer, and leaned against the counter with it, twisting a spoon through the thick, dark chocolate. “No?” 

“I don’t like that you can’t tell me about it. I hate when you have secrets from me.” 

“It’s not a secret,” Ice said. “It’s a security clearance issue that’ll only be relevant for a bit longer. Then we can have rousing discussions about the physics of it, hmm?” He caught Maverick’s expression, and laughed. “It’s no big deal, baby. I tell you all the important stuff, don’t I?”

Maverick sighed. As usual, he found it difficult to maintain his irritation when Ice mixed his logic with a little emotional tug. And the pet name, which he said so casually, like it was no big deal, like Maverick’s whole heart didn’t skip a beat every time he heard it in Ice’s rich, velvety baritone. 

“How much longer?” he tried. “You guys are wrapping up?”

“Yeah,” Ice said. “A month, maybe six weeks more? Then I’ll be untouchable, and I’ll let the brass know how they’re going to end your review—with a promotion and a pay bump—and everything will go back to normal. Better than normal, because people can know, and we can live in this broken house you love so much.”

“You love this broken house, too.”

“I love that you love it,” Ice said. He licked the last bit of chocolate off his spoon, then put the spoon in the dishwasher and the ice cream back in the freezer. “Don’t worry about me and this project, Mav, seriously. Everything’s going to be fine.”

Maverick hummed an answer, because if he opened his mouth, he’d just argue some more, and he didn’t want Ice worrying that he was worrying. 

"How are your classes going?" 

Maverick let Ice change the subject. "Fine. Ooh, I brought something home today! Don’t be mad." 

Ice let himself be led down the hall. "As long as it’s not a puppy…" 

It wasn’t a puppy. Tucked away in one of the extra bedrooms, unofficially the place where Maverick did all his learning annex class projects that didn’t manifest as work on the house, Maverick had set up a potter’s wheel. Ice only recognized it from the open house for Maverick’s ceramics class. He’d done painting for a few weeks and hated it, but he liked ceramics enough that he was taking a second, higher level class. 

“Wow,” Ice said. “That looks advanced.”

“My teacher says I have a natural instinct for it,” Maverick said, beaming. 

Ice grinned. “You are good with your hands,” he said, and laughed when Maverick blushed. “Why don’t you show me how it works?”

It took a while to set up, and Ice watched Maverick move around the room, smiling at the supernova of energy that powered him. Sometimes Ice felt so tired, but Maverick just kept going and going.

Maverick sat on a low stool before the pottery wheel, the machine between his knees. He positioned the ball of clay, and then looked at Ice. “Come here.”

Ice pulled up another stool, right behind Maverick, so he could see what Maverick saw. He kept his hands to himself, but he scooted the stool up close, his legs beside Maverick’s, the front of his pelvis to the back of Maverick’s, like when they rode Maverick’s motorcycle together. 

Maverick dipped his hands in a bowl of cloudy water, then positioned them on either side of the clay ball. He started the wheel turning, pressing down gently on the foot pedal, for maybe the first time in his life not flooring the accelerator right out of the gate. Ice smiled; it was nice to see him cautious about something, recognizing that something was fragile and acting accordingly. Maverick had grown up a lot since they’d been together, and it reminded Ice of the road behind them.

It had been a damn good trip.

Maverick curved his hands around the clay, which was elongating, growing taller as Maverick thinned it. The slightest movement, just the angle and pressure of one finger, changed the way the clay moved and shaped itself. Ice could see what Maverick’s teacher had meant; Maverick seemed to know what to do to on an intrinsic level, and he adjusted the shape of the clay when it started to buckle like he was doing it through muscle memory. After a few minutes, he had urged a curvy vase out of the heavy, dense ball of clay, and Ice was impressed. He’d never really made anything beautiful, himself. His life had never been about that. 

“Here,” Maverick said, “you try.”

“Oh, no,” Ice said. “I’ll wreck it.”

“Come on,” Maverick said softly, “I’ve got you.”

Ice reached out hesitantly. Maverick wet his own hands again, and then took Ice’s hands in his, spreading the water out over his skin. It was slicker than just water, and Ice’s breathing went a little shallow as Maverick slowly massaged Ice’s fingers and palms, his touch practiced and sure. Maverick guided his hands with his own, putting Ice’s hands around the vase, putting his own hands atop them, letting him know through gentle pressure how to move. The clay was slick and cool, and Ice felt it respond to his touch, which was kind of thrilling, actually. Maverick’s hands were coated with the muddy water, and he was so warm compared to the clay, and it was … well, it was thrilling in a different way, the way Maverick was taking charge, the way he was guiding Ice, showing him how to move with a quiet dominance.

“Mav,” Ice said quietly, and without saying anything, Maverick turned his head and kissed him. The kiss was passionate, deep, and again, quietly dominant, and Ice felt himself melt, leaning into Maverick, taking his hands off the clay to put them on Maverick’s body. Maverick tapped the foot pedal and the wheel stopped spinning, the vase slightly crumpled due to Ice’s lack of control when Maverick kissed him, and he twisted around to be face-to-face with Ice, his slick hands in his hair and in his clothes. 

“Shit,” Ice breathed. “Mav, I need—”

“I know,” Maverick mumbled, biting down on his neck.

“No, you don’t. I need—”

“You need me to be in charge tonight,” Maverick said. “I _know_, Ice. I got you.”

Ice panted. “Yes. Yes, Maverick, please—”

“Shh,” Maverick said. “Hush. I got you, love.” 

Ice was quiet, because Maverick had told him to be quiet. They lost most of their clothing on the floor of the spare room, streaks of the watered-down clay from their hands painting the places they touched each other. Eventually, Maverick started moving him, guiding him wordlessly down the hall. Their progress was slow, backs against the wall, mouths locked together, hands all over. By the time they reached their bedroom, Ice was desperate and moaning, and Maverick kissed him and held him, and pressed him down into the mattress as he slid inside him in one firm, perfect stroke. They were face-to-face, so close, Ice’s knees on either side of Maverick’s hips, his arms around his neck, holding him down against him. 

“Easy, baby,” Maverick whispered, moving slowly inside him, waking up dormant parts of him, lighting up every cell of his body like the Fourth of July. 

It was so much. It was so much sensation and emotion to hold, and Ice only had this fragile, human body to contain it. He squeezed his eyes closed, buried his face in the joint of Maverick’s shoulder, whispered over and over again, “I love you. I love you.”  



	2. Chapter 2

  
Ice had been staring at vectors for so long his eyes had begun to cross. He took a break, turning away from the spreadsheets and massaging his temple. The numbers he needed had to be in there, but he’d been looking for them for almost an hour, and still hadn’t found the correct data set. 

It was all going to be worth it. In a couple months, Maverick would be back at work, and they could be together without censure, and all of this would be worth it.

Captain Moss entered the lab with a fresh cup of coffee, frowning at Ice. “There’s something in your hair.”

Ice sighed. “It’s clay.”

“How did that happen?”

“Long story.”

“Are you going to have those data points for me by the end of the day?”

“Yes, sir. Captain, do you have a moment? I had a question about one of these reports.”

Moss nodded. “Of course, Commander. Why don’t you step into my office?”

Ice followed Moss to his office at the back of the lab. Moss sat behind his desk, taking a sip of his coffee before giving Ice his full attention. “What’s on your mind?”

“I saw something odd in one of the reports. There was an invoice with no recipient, but an address in the Diyala province in Iraq. Sir, correct me if I’m wrong, but there are no American military installations in Diyala. It’s a no-fly zone.” 

Moss looked grave all of a sudden. “You’re wrong, Commander. I’m correcting you. What’s more, this is above your clearance. Please disregard anything you’ve read. Am I understood?”

Ice nodded slowly, eyeing the man. “Yes, sir.”

“Dismissed. Those vectors by the end of the day, Commander.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

Ice left Moss’s office, closing the door behind him and walking slowly back to his work station. He felt a cramp of apprehension in his gut, and, despite being given a direct order, he found the invoice again, copied all the information down on a scrap of paper, and slipped it in his wallet behind his ID. Better safe than sorry.

***

Ice was exhausted and in a poor mood when he got home, so Maverick stopped tiling the first floor bathroom, threw on some clean clothes, and took him out to his favorite Italian place downtown. Ice relaxed over tortellini and Maverick’s company, and Maverick stopped at one glass of wine so he could drive home, so Ice could have two and get a little mellow.

He was feeling pretty damn good as they walked back to their car, parked on the street a few blocks over. It was dark, and they were alone, and twelve years of hiding their relationship from the Navy was almost over, so Ice grabbed Maverick’s hand as they walked, and Maverick let him, laughing a little.

“You’re clingy when you’re tipsy, Tom,” he said.

“You like it.”

“I fucking love it,” Maverick said. “You gonna let me top again tonight?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I’d like that.”

But Maverick didn’t smile. His brow creased, and his hand squeezed Ice’s a little too hard. 

“Come on,” he said. “Let’s get to the car.”

“What’s wrong?” Ice asked. Before Maverick could answer, he saw it in the reflection of a shop window. There was a man walking not too far behind them, his hood pulled up, hiding his face. They took a turn, and he took it, too. They sped up, and he sped up, too. They weren’t too far from the car; it was less than a block away. 

“Hey!” the man yelled suddenly, and Maverick started running, the keys in his hand. But Ice’s head was foggy, and when the man shouted, he startled, stopping in his tracks. Ice heard Maverick curse, and saw him coming back for him, but when he turned back, the man was on top of him, and he had a gun in his hand, pointed at Ice. Ice couldn’t move. He heard Maverick say his name. Ice didn’t move.

“Mav, don’t,” he said. “Stay back.”

It was dark, and the man had his hood pulled down, so Ice couldn’t make out his face, but he saw a ring on the hand holding the gun. He recognized it immediately; he wore the same ring. A Navy ring.

“Gimme your wallet,” the man said.

Ice nodded. “Okay.” He heard Mav moving behind him, and said softly, evenly, “Maverick, don’t move. Stay back. It’s okay.”

Ice pulled his wallet out of his back pocket, and held it out for the man. The man leaned in, snatched the wallet, the gun still held out, so close to Ice he felt it brush his shoulder. He jerked back, stuffing Ice’s wallet in his pocket. He nodded at Maverick.

“Yours too.”

“Slow, Mav,” Ice said. “Just hand it to me, and I’ll hand it to him.”

Maverick took his wallet out of his pocket. He stepped closer to Ice than he needed to, pressing the wallet into his hands. Maverick’s hands were shaking, and more than anything, Ice wanted to take his fear away, to make this okay. They just had to get through this. It would be over soon.

Ice took Maverick’s wallet, and he took a step between Maverick and the man with the gun, holding out the wallet.

“Here,” he said.

The man grabbed Maverick’s wallet, and stuffed that in his pocket, too. But he didn’t leave. He was still looking at them.

“You got what you wanted,” Ice said with exaggerated calm. “It’s okay. Can we go?”

The man looked at Ice, looked him straight in the face, long enough that Ice could finally pick out some of his features. He had a long, thin nose, and a scar cutting through his left eyebrow.

“Sorry about this,” the man said, and pulled the trigger.

An enormous force rocked Ice’s body, like a battering ram to his abdomen. It knocked him off his feet. He didn’t realize what was happening; he was on his back on the street, and the man with the gun was running away, and Maverick was kneeling over him, pressing his jacket to Ice’s abdomen, and fuck, it hurt, it hurt so bad, the worst pain of his life. There was blood on Maverick’s shirt, and Ice thought, _please no_ before realizing it was just castoff. It was his blood. He’d been shot.

“Ice!” Maverick said, his voice raw, desperate. “Ice, please, please no, please stay with me, okay? Stay with me, baby, it’s gonna be okay, it’s gonna—we’re gonna get you some help, baby, okay?” He started yelling. “Help! Someone please help us!”

The world was growing dim. Ice felt like he couldn’t breathe, like there was cotton stuffed in his airway. His head swam, and he wanted to close his eyes, but he couldn’t. He had to look after Maverick. He couldn’t let him out of his sight. With great effort, Ice lifted his hand to Maverick’s face, and Maverick whipped around, looking at him with wild eyes.

“It’s gonna be okay, Mav,” he rasped, and Maverick opened his mouth to say something, but people were converging on them, strangers yelling out, asking what happened, what could they do, Jeff, go call 911, hurry, please hurry, this guy’s been shot.

Time condensed. All he could see was Maverick, the naked fear in his eyes. He tried to hold onto him, but there was no strength, not even enough for his fingers to curl around Maverick’s. A man and two women in blue uniforms came, and they cut open his shirt and put a mask on his face and suddenly he was being lifted, onto a gurney up in the air into an ambulance. Ice heard the siren like he was underwater. The sound was there, somewhere, but faraway and misshapen. Barely recognizable. The only thing he could focus on was Maverick, sitting beside him, his blood on his shirt and his hands and his cheek. Ice wanted to say, _I love you_ and he wanted to say, _It’s going to be okay,_ but he couldn’t say anything.

The hospital was chaos, and Ice couldn’t keep up with everything that was going on. There were at least half a dozen people in scrubs surrounding him, shouting at each other. Mav. Where was Mav? He opened his mouth to ask for him, but blood came out instead of words, and his vision smeared. He could hear the heart monitor they’d attached to him, the space between the notes of his pulse lengthening.

He was dying.

He looked away from the doctors and nurses trying to save his life, dropping his eyes, and it was then that he saw Maverick. He was standing in the doorway, a police officer holding him by the shoulders so he wouldn’t rush the room and push through all these people trying to save Ice’s life to get to him, to hold him, to tell him not to go.

_Please don’t let me go,_ Ice thought desperately. _Please, I can’t leave you; I promised I’d never leave you—_

The heart monitor screamed, one long note. Maverick faded; all of Ice’s vision faded, blurring to white. For a moment he felt nothing. It was impossible to gauge the time; it was like someone had paused everything. He hovered, held by the nothingness. When he snapped out of it, the doctors and nurses were gone. He was in a different room, and Mav was close, so close. Ice was standing beside him, Maverick in a chair in a dark room next to a bed, his head in his hands, crying. Ice moved closer to him, and he reached out for him, and his hands slipped through. Slipped right through Maverick like he was made of water. 

“I can’t feel you,” Ice said, and he heard the note of panic in his voice. “Maverick, please—”

“Wake up,” Maverick said.

Ice relaxed a little. Oh. It was just a dream. All of this was just a dream, and soon he would wake up, and he and Maverick could fool around a little before Ice had to get up and go to work. He’d make French toast, Mav’s favorite, and—

“Tom, I need you to wake up,” Maverick said, and for the first time, Ice realized he wasn’t speaking to him. He was speaking to the body in the bed. 

Ice felt terror pulse through his veins, and he knew the answer before he looked, but he had to. He had to see it for himself. He turned from Maverick and he looked at the body in the bed, and he looked at the man’s face, and he saw himself. His face was pale as porcelain, and there was a tube taped into his mouth, running down his throat, forcing his body to breathe because it couldn’t do it on its own. His body was there, and he wasn’t in it.

_I can fix this,_ he thought, and he walked to the bed. Cautiously, he took another step, and he moved into the bed, literally walking through it, feeling no resistance. He didn’t feel anything. He tried to climb back into his body, but if there was a trick to it, he didn’t know it. His body didn’t take him back. He was locked out.

Ice screamed. He couldn’t feel it in his throat, or his chest, and with that realization, his screams turned to violent, racking sobs. He couldn’t feel any tears. There weren’t any tears. Ice fell to his knees, curled desperately into himself between Maverick and his own, useless body, and he let the sobs run through him like a possessing spirit. He writhed and screamed and no one in the whole world noticed a thing.  



	3. Chapter 3

  
The hours stretched on. Ice wished for sleep, but it never came. He stayed with Maverick, a silent sentry beside him as doctors and police rotated through the room. Ice listened to Maverick talk to the police, and his heart sank; the police had no idea who had done this, and Maverick hadn’t seen his face. Ice had made him stay back, and that was good; if he hadn’t, maybe Maverick would be in the same state he was.

When the police were done with him, they asked if they could call someone to be with him. Maverick blanked at first, looking at Ice’s body in the bed, but then he mumbled Carole’s name. She was a dear friend of many years, and Ice was glad Maverick had thought of her. She was kind and motherly, and Maverick shouldn’t be alone.

Dawn was coming up on the horizon when Carole arrived.

“Oh, Mav,” she said, and knelt down to hug him. Maverick took it in a daze; after a long moment, he remembered what hugs were, and placed an arm limply around her.

“What are the doctors saying?” she asked.

Maverick’s voice was small, cracking. “They don’t know if he’ll wake up.”

Carole glanced back at Ice’s body, and then she looked back at Maverick, smoothing his hair back out of his face. “Maverick, I know you want to stay with him, but you look exhausted. He wouldn’t want you to treat yourself like this. Let me take you home. You can get a few hours sleep, shower, change your clothes, eat something, and then come back.”

Maverick set his jaw, and Ice anticipated a fight, but Carole met Maverick’s eyes and he folded, his lips trembling.

“What if I leave, and he—”

“The doctors are looking after him,” Carole said firmly. “I’m going to look after you.” She helped him to his feet. “Come on, sweetie. I’m going to take you home.” 

Ice looked at his body, and he looked at Maverick, and he knew which one he needed to stay with. He followed Maverick to the house. 

Carole offered to stay with him, but Maverick said no, he was just going to take a shower and go to bed. Carole kissed his cheek and went downstairs to sleep in one of the guest rooms, and Maverick went into the master bath and started his shower. Ice sat on the bed, and listened to the water beating the tiles, and then he listened to Maverick’s fists beating the tiles, and he listened to him scream. He listened, and he sat like a stone, because he was powerless to help him. Maverick couldn’t feel his touch; he wouldn’t hear a word he said. 

Eventually, Maverick came into the bedroom, knuckles torn and bruised, and pulled on some pajamas. Ice’s pajamas. Soft, loose sweats too big for Maverick, and Ice’s USNA t-shirt, which was soft as a cloud after two decades of wear. Maverick climbed into bed, settling into Ice’s side of the bed, and Ice lay down beside him, his head resting on Maverick’s pillow, and he listened to Maverick cry himself to sleep. 

***

Maverick slept for hours. Ice didn’t sleep at all; he didn’t know if he could, like this. He sat beside Maverick, watching over him, until he heard a noise downstairs. He went to investigate, and found Carole entering the kitchen. He relaxed, and watched as Carole moved around the kitchen starting up the coffee machine and cooking some breakfast.

After a while, well past nine, Maverick came down. He looked somber, but better rested, not as raw as last night, and Ice was so grateful for Carole bullying him into bed that he would have kissed her, if he’d had the ability.

“I called the hospital,” Carole said. “Ice’s condition hasn’t changed.”

Maverick nodded, scrubbed a hand across his brow. Carole pressed a cup of coffee into his hands and shepherded him to the table, where she presented him with a heaping pile of eggs.

“Eat,” she said, and Maverick ate.

Carole cleaned up the kitchen while Maverick got dressed. Ice lingered, watching them. Watching life go on around him, his people living and breathing and mourning him while he was just inches away.

***

Ice followed Maverick and Carole back to the hospital. He tried not to look at his body, so pale and so still, like a wax model, like it wasn’t even real. 

Doctors and nurses flitted in and out like pollinating butterflies, resting on Ice’s body long enough to check his vitals or administer medication. They were a blur. Sometimes they stopped and talked to Maverick, but he was always more upset after. No change. No pupillary response. Have you called his family? Maverick was his family.

In the late afternoon, an unexpected visitor filled the doorway. Captain Moss, in full uniform, looking grave. Maverick didn’t even stand when he saw him, just stayed slumped in his chair next to the bed.

Moss stayed in the doorway. “Commander Mitchell,” he said. “I’d like to offer my condolences.”

Maverick jumped out of his chair with such force that the chair went flying out from under him, clattering against the near wall. “He’s not dead,” he spat.

Moss frowned. “I meant—what are the doctors saying?”

Maverick deflated. “It’s not good. But he’s strong, and he could still—”

“Of course he could,” Moss said gently. “Would you like to take a walk with me, Commander? I’d like to talk to you about your options.”

“What options?”

“With the service, Commander.”

Maverick hesitated. “I’m out. Berg—”

“You’re on administrative review. Wouldn’t it be nice to have that issue behind you by the time Commander Kazansky’s condition resolves itself?” 

Maverick looked at Ice’s body. “I can’t—”

“I’ll stay with him,” Carole said gently. “I won’t leave him alone, I promise, Mav.”

Maverick nodded, and he followed Berg from the room. Ice started to follow him, walking behind them both, but then he noticed something: a tiny clump of clay covering a few strands of the hair at Maverick’s nape. Unbidden, the memory of that night at the potter’s wheel popped into his head, vivid and visceral, and when he took his next step, he found himself somewhere else. 

Maverick’s spare room was dark. Ice recognized the shape of the potter’s wheel and knew immediately where he was. But how has he gotten there? His immediate desire was to get back to Maverick as soon as possible, but then he heard something somewhere else in the house. A crash, something falling to the floor in the rooms above. Ice ran up the stairs. He followed the noise to his home office, which looked like the police had tossed it. Desk drawers were open, things thrown to the side, every scrap of order he’d had disrupted. And in the middle of it, a man, cursing at Ice’s computer, which was stalled on the password screen. Ice looked at him: long, thin nose; a scar cutting through his left eyebrow. The man from the street. The man who’d started all of this: The man who’d shot him.

Ice was filled with incredible rage, and he rushed at the man, forgetting his body lying in the hospital bed miles away. Something incredible happened: the man was pushed back several feet, crashing into the wall hard enough that the plaster cracked. Ice gaped at him, astonished, but then the man shouted and ran from the room, passing right through Ice as he did so. Ice was confused, but he knew he had to follow the man, so he ran after him. He ran with such singular focus that he didn’t notice his surroundings until the man was locking himself in a small, ground floor apartment on the bad side of town. Ice followed him in, walking through the locked door, and looked around. The place was sparsely decorated, and this and the beer bottles littered around the chair parked in front of the television told Ice that this was a single occupancy residence. The man was pacing around, looking wired and haggard. He snatched the phone from the wall, but Ice was too slow to see the numbers he dialed.

“It’s me,” the man said. “I went to Kazansky’s place, but I couldn’t get into the computer. I didn’t find anything else. Something weird happened—no, I’m not using. I’m _not_. Look, there’s something freaky going on, and you’re going to have to give me—I don’t know, hazard pay or something. Especially if you want me to kill the other one.”

Ice went cold. The other one. Did that mean Maverick? Was this man going to hurt Maverick? 

There was a pause while the person on the other end of the phone spoke. Then the man said, “No, I’m not jumping the gun. I’m not going to do anything until you say so. Don’t worry; I’m not going to stick my neck out for free.”

He hung up the phone. Ice watched him as he picked up the coffee can on the counter next to the stove, but when he opened it up, there were needles in there, and tiny bags of powder, and Ice turned and left before he could see any more. Maverick. He needed to warn Maverick.

On his way out, Ice stopped at the bank of mailboxes for the building. He looked back at the door he’d come from, and saw 1B written on it. He checked the mailboxes for 1B, and came up with a name: Willie Lopez.

Ice headed back the way he’d come, back to the street. He would tell Maverick about Willie Lopez, and he would warn him to be careful and tell him to go to the police, and Maverick would be safe.

He just had to figure out how to get the message across.

He was wrestling with that thought when he passed an odd little shop with a neon sign advertising PSYCHIC READINGS ALIGN YOUR CHAKRAS COMMUNE WITH THE DEAD.

“Worth a shot,” he said, and entered the building. 

The front room, with an old couch for waiting to see the psychic and dozens of trinkets and talismans for sale, was empty except for a lady behind the cash register painting her nails. The place smelled like incense and nail polish, and Ice wrinkled his nose. He walked past the cash register to another room, dimly lit with a dozen burning candles. There were three people around a table draped with silk scarves, and a crystal ball—an actual crystal ball, good grief—sitting in the center. There was another man waiting against the back wall, and Ice stood next to him, watching the scene unfold.

On one side of the table, two elderly black women huddled together, gazing into the ball. On the other side was a gangly white guy with an oversized mustache. He was moving his hands over the crystal ball, his long fingers waggling for effect. Ice rolled his eyes.

The man with the mustache spoke. “The spirits are awake, Mrs. Washington, and there’s someone … there’s someone here calling to you. Do you … do you have someone who has passed over to the other side, someone whose name starts with … an N?”

“An N or an M?” one of the little old ladies asked.

“Oh, it could be either,” the man with the mustache said. “Things get garbled and confused in the spirit world.”

“My husband’s name was Maurice!” the other lady said.

“Definitely an M, then,” the man with the mustache said, and Ice laughed.

“Jesus Christ,” he said.

“Hey, can we get a little less input from the peanut gallery?” the man with the mustache said. “I’m listening to the spirits.”

Ice’s spine straightened. “You can hear me,” he said.

“Yeah, and I’d like to hear less of you.”

The little old ladies looked around. They looked back at the man standing next to Ice, and then back to the man with the mustache, and shrugged.

Ice approached the table. “My name is Ice. Say it. Say Ice.” 

“Ice!” the man with the mustache snapped. “Jesus, get out of here; I’m working.”

Ice walked through the table, stopping in the middle of it with the crystal ball in his abdomen. The man with the mustache screamed. Then he passed out, falling backwards, taking his chair, the silk scarves, and the crystal ball with him.

The little old ladies and the man on the back wall started shouting, and the woman from the other room ran in. When she saw the man with the mustache on the ground, she started screaming, too, and ran back out of the room. Ice sighed. Great. Someone could hear him, and he had killed him. Perfect. 

The woman with the wet nails ran back in with a big glass of water, which she threw in the man with the mustache’s face. He jerked awake, springing up into a sitting position, and staring right at Ice.

“I did it,” he gasped. “I really did it. My mother had the gift, and my whole life, I’d always thought that it skipped a generation, but you—”

Ice knelt beside him. “Can you see me, too?”

“Yeah,” the man said. “Yeah, I can see you.”

The woman with the wet nails frowned. “I’m going to call an ambulance. You hit your head; you need a doctor—”

“I’m fine!” the man with the mustache crowed. “I’m better than fine. I _did it_, Amber.” He glanced at the little old ladies and their friend. “Get them out of here. Give them a refund. I … I need to be alone.”

Amber shepherded the three of them from the room, apologizing profusely and offering free crystals. The man with the mustache came to his feet and began pacing, and Ice stood and watched him.

“You can be alone all you want, except for me,” Ice said. “I’m not going anywhere until you help me.”

The man looked at him. “Help you.”

“Yeah, help me. You’re the only one who can see or hear me, and I need you to do something for me. Talk to someone. It’s important. Life or death important.”

The man laughed. “Is that a joke? A ghost joke?”

“I’m not a ghost,” Ice said. “At least—at least, I don’t think I am. I’m technically still alive …”

“What does that mean, technically?”

Ice sighed. “I mean, my body’s at First Presbyterian on life support, but it’s still … I think it’s still good. I’m hoping. I’m hoping I can figure out how to get back in it, and live my life …”

The man drooped. “So you’re not a ghost.” 

“I don’t think so. Sorry.”

The man shrugged. “Just my luck. Okay. Did you say your name was Ice?”

“Yeah.”

“Weird name. I’m Goose.”

Ice’s brow went up, but all he said was, “Nice to meet you, Goose. So, will you help me?”

“I don’t know, man, I mean … I got a business to run, and I—”

“Well,” Ice said evenly, “I have nothing but time, and I don’t get tired like this. So either you help me, or I make haunting you my 24/7 occupation.”

“You’re not a ghost. You can’t haunt shit.” He rubbed the bump on his forehead. “Maybe I _should_ go to the hospital. You’re not real. Maybe I had a stroke. I need a CAT scan.”

“Yes!” Ice said. “Great idea. You go to the hospital, get your scan, and when you’re done with that, you can go up to the eighth floor and see my body and deliver my message, and I’ll leave you alone.” 

Goose looked at him distrustfully. “I don’t know, man …”

Ice nodded. “Okay. Do you have a request?”

“Request for what?”

“I’m going to start singing, and I’m not going to stop until you agree to go talk to Maverick. So. Requests?”

Goose sighed. “All right, fine, you win. Which hospital?”  



End file.
